


No Need for Lucifer to Fall

by sophiahelix



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-11-01
Updated: 2001-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No need for Lucifer to fall, if he'd learn to keep his mouth shut."</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Need for Lucifer to Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Written post-"Life Serial", pre-"Smashed." Thanks to Jintian for beta. Title quote from Liz Phair's "Perfect World."

He doesn't get up until halfway through the night now, just for her. Because the first time he tried to turn on the lamp, she squirmed away and knocked it off with a quick hand, shattering the bulb on the stone floor. He knows it has to be dark for her, that she can't sneak down into his dank crypt if there's the slightest possibility she'll be seen by anyone, friend or foe.

There are certain things she will and will not do. She won't kiss him on the mouth. She won't kiss him below the waist. She will only lick and lick and suck his neck, stab his small nipples with her tongue, run her useless teeth over his hard shoulder. She pulls him on top of her like a security blanket every time.

If he reaches a hand after her when she wriggles out from under the sheets, she ignores it. If he tries to speak to her as they fit together, she holds his lips shut with a finger. If he doesn't move within a minute or so of finishing, she roughly pushes him away.

He can do almost as he pleases, however. His teeth slip over her body, changing between dull and sharp, and when he nips her delicately she makes a strange sound, almost a whimper, almost a laugh. She wants him to bite her harder sometimes, and only the memory of pain stops him.

She likes to be pinned down tightly, and she likes to be slammed into, and she doesn't like to be held afterwards. If he were a bonehead mortal like Xander, he'd be in heaven.

Silly word that, heaven. So stupid of him to even think it. He tries not to use the word, but there are so many casual phrases containing it. Even language is a minefield now, which is why they only talk when his mouth is full of her.

***

She likes to pretend he doesn't know she's there.

She tiptoes in on her tiny sneaky feet and stands over him, so close he can smell her, the kills she's made so far, the kills she wants to make.

She peels off those little scraps she calls clothing and tosses them into a pile next to the bed, easy access for a quick getaway.

She slithers in with him, barely disturbing the sheets, his own sly ghost.

She faces the wall, and it's always up to him to make the first move. Always.

***

He wonders if she has a fucking clue what he thinks about on these nights. She seems to live inside her own head nowadays. He can hardly blame her. He doesn't want to think about this either, any of it.

Mostly he doesn't want to think about why she told him. Was it was because she trusted him above anyone else? Or because she didn't care enough to hide her darkest secret from him? Either way it hurts. Hurts to know she trusts him but can fuck him like a stranger, hurts to know it doesn't matter to her that he lies awake in the day, trying to imagine what it feels like to lose heaven.

They swim in darkness together, two blind fish. Her eyes are clenched tight. He is only her imaginary friend, and tomorrow she will nag him, probably, kick him out of bed, make him babysit the sis while she goes shopping. He wants to turn the lights on, to make it real, to make her see him as he is.

He is, of course, a creature of the night. He can see her even without the lights on, and he wonders if she remembers, if she cares. But it doesn't matter that he has her outline memorized-- she'll keep her eyes closed. Even in daylight, she never sees him any way but straight through.

***

Her breath fills the room. She heaves next to him, a small hurricane in his bed, a tidal wave in his life. When she sits up, sliding her feet into her shoes, he grasps her hand.

"You know this isn't any good for either of us," he tells her.

Her nails score his wrist as she leaves.

***

He shudders into her, nightmare force, trying to turn her inside out. He can't believe how angry he is right now, how much he'd like to hurt her, show her what he is. Two hours ago she was laughably drunk, slagging him off in front of those demons, throwing insults at him, making him look like a fool. And now she has the temerity to steal back into his bed, her pert little ass turned towards him, her soft, easily-torn skin begging for his touch. And of course he has to do it, reach over and pull her to him, lips fastening on her breakable neck.

Because suddenly she isn't making choices anymore, no, she's riding the current until someone makes the decision for her. This is what they did to her, brought her back to be weak and lost. She breaks hearts, uses him like a hobbyhorse to ride and throw away. None of that is fair, but she isn't fair either, writhing under him like she really wants him and not just his long cold body.

He pins her wrists to the pillow, centering his weight between her legs, faster, harder. He knows this has to hurt, but the pleasure slides around and through them. She moans like a child; against her will, he can tell.

He sees her dim head thrown back, hair a pale glow, neck stupidly bared, and for a moment he wants to end it all, send her back where she belongs, finish tormenting them both. His teeth graze her skin, almost by accident, then again, harder, scraping at it. He concentrates on slamming into her. If he doesn't think about hurting her it can't hurt him. The tiniest trickle of blood slides onto his lower lip, and the hunger chokes him. It is all he can do to merely lap at this little life-giving fountain, this delicious taste of heat and misery and desire.

She whimpers a little, and his licking is stronger than he realized, nearly a sucking motion. The dual pleasure is more than he can take, warmth within and without. Three forceful thrusts and he bursts into her, the burning sensation so intense he finds himself crying out, moaning against her neck. Thrust and thrust and forget. He releases her skin and drops down onto her, weak but flushed with his stolen vitality.

She nuzzles his neck, almost sweetly, and he is about to respond to this unusual intimacy when he feels her teeth sink into his skin. Surprised, he tries to jerk away, but her blunt teeth clamp down, sending burning pain through his shoulder.

"Wha --" he gasps out.

She lets go and flips him onto his back, rolling on top of him. His limp cock slips out and hangs wetly between his legs, a rush of fluids sliding between them. She takes his wrist and jerks it roughly up to his mouth.

"Do it, Spike. Turn me. I know you want to."

Through a stunned haze, he grasps onto some sort of composure.

"Don't -- don't be an idiot. You're a Slayer. You don't want this."

"Try me," she growls.

"For fuck's sake, Buffy..." This is not what they're supposed to be saying. And there should be light.

His mind reeling, he tries to sit up but she tackles him down. Damn her supernatural strength anyhow.

"You're not listening. I said _turn me_." Her voice catches and he can feel her strain to hold the tears back. One escapes, and falls into his open mouth. She tastes like regret.

"I couldn't if I wanted to," he says brusquely. "You're forgetting the chip."

"Bullshit. You wouldn't be harming me," she says in her fierce little voice. "Quit lying and do it." She inches up until her neck is hairs away from his suddenly sharpening fangs. The smell of her blood is torture.

A moment passes, an evil Spike moment in which he envisions her by his side for eternity, his undead beauty, his partner in crime, his muse and savior. It could work.

But she would crumble with the weight of the years, he thinks. She is a candle flame, a fighting butterfly meant to tear itself wing from thin steel wing in its battle for life. Her heart beats so fast, and her breath is so quick, and she is so beautiful in the sunlight.

"Why?" he asks quietly.

She breaks, then.

"Because I -- wouldn't have to -- care anymore," she chokes out between sobs. Her burning tears drip down on his smooth chest.

"What?" he whispers, horrified. She is good. She is not like this.

"You don't give a -- shit -- about anything. I'd just be -- nothing. Like you."

If his heart still beat, it would have stopped at this point. His mouth goes dry, and he feels sick, his recent tiny gorge heavy on his stomach where she leans her weight.

"That's what you think of me?" he manages. "A nothing?"

She doesn't answer, and she doesn't have to. Her hands clench around his biceps, nails digging until it hurts, the sound of her weeping harsh and ugly. There are words in there, somewhere, but he can't make them out. They are not words for him.

The storm passes, and she heaves two shuddering sighs. For a very, very quiet moment she lies on his chest. He can feel her pulse throb against his cool skin. He lifts his hands, and hovers them over her back for a moment, then drops them. She has taken all his comfort.

She gets up slowly, her sweat-sticky skin peeling away from his. She sits on the edge of the bed like always, pulling on her trendy little outfit, like saving the world requires some kind of dress code. It's not even three, and there are plenty more monsters out there. She rises to zip up her pants, and he knows she will not return to his bed again.

They were wrong, then. Pain is her gift, living pain, a knife left in an unhealing wound. She will never learn this.

Panic surges and she is leaving, leaving, leaving him forever, this is it, this is over, this is done. He is losing her heat, her false love, her beautiful passion, her beautiful pain. He can't stand it.

"I might have changed my mind, luv," he hears himself say as he sits up. "Why don't you come back to bed for a bite?"

In the silence he can almost hear her hiss like the hellcat she is.

"Fuck you, Spike," she spits. "Fuck. You."

"Too late," he says before he can stop himself, cruelty an old habit.

She senses his smirk as it starts and hits it off his face. He reels back on the bed, clutching his jaw.

"If you ever touch me again, I'll kill you. It's that simple," she grinds out, leaning over him.

She turns and runs, nearly silent on the stone floor. The door bangs open, silvered moonlight pouring in, and then shuts on her silhouette. He knows he will never see her in darkness again.


End file.
